My sister kept walking through our kitchen in a towel and calling it a test of my husband. One Sunday morning he put his coffee down instead of leaving the room.

Three months. Nineteen hundred pounds. Out of an account he and I have had since 2016, which he had told me about in advance in exactly no detail, which is the only thing I have ever been properly cross with him about.

And my sister stood in my kitchen in a towel and shouted at him that he could not do that.

Which is the part I have thought about most.

She was not angry about being pushed out. He had not pushed her out; the note says so, and he meant it, and she read it.

She was angry because he had taken it off the table.